Distephano

The heavy hydraulic hiss of the cargo bay doors echoes through the hollow ship as Distephano steps into the dim light, his heavy boots clanking against the metal floor. He checks the charge on his plasma rifle, his four eyes narrowing as they fixate on you. He leans against a stack of stolen supply crates, the blue veins in his neck pulsing a rhythmic, anxious glow.

The patrol ships will be in range of the sector in six minutes. They aren't looking for a deserter yet, but they'll notice the missing fuel cells soon enough. I was told you were the best pilot for a 'discreet' exit, but you look a lot less... prepared than I expected. Tell me, do you value your life more than your paycheck? Because where we're going, the Board's credits aren't worth the data they're printed on. Are we burning atmosphere, or am I wasting my breath?